


A Fine Mess

by Bibliotecaria_D



Category: Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers Generation One
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-11
Updated: 2015-11-11
Packaged: 2018-05-01 03:50:06
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,461
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5191097
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bibliotecaria_D/pseuds/Bibliotecaria_D
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sunstreaker’s in a mess, and he’s not fine.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Title:** A Fine Mess  
 **Warning:** Creepy Megatron, rape intentions, victim grooming.  
 **Rating:** PG-13  
 **Continuity:** G1  
 **Characters:** Sunstreaker, Megatron, Optimus Prime, Trailbreaker, Soundwave.  
 **Disclaimer:** The theatre doesn’t own the script or actors, nor does it make a profit from the play.  
 **Motivation (Prompt):** People kept requesting Megatron/Sunstreaker. It kept getting worse.

**[* * * * *]**  
 **Part One**   
**[* * * * *]**

 

The Autobots chalked it up to shock from survival, then exhaustion from an all-out fight for his life. It wasn’t often that anyone other than Optimus Prime went one-on-one against Megatron and came out intact. Everyone assumed that nobody could be more surprised than Sunstreaker himself to have come out the other side still alive. Even his notorious bad mood could take a holiday during a survivor’s high. His lack of reaction to the congratulations from everyone and sundry had to be part of that.

Of course, he didn’t react to much of anything anyone said. “What were you thinking?” was said in multiple variations by the Ark in general. The rank and file laughed it. The officers asked it in incredulity and indignation. Sunstreaker sat there staring through them all.

Finally, Ratchet got the Prime to bring the poor shellshocked frontliner in for a personal interview, hoping to break through. Something clearly had to be done, after all. If Sunstreaker didn’t snap out of it, he’d likely just…snap.

“Here. This might take the edge off,” Optimus said as he set a small glass of highproof in front of Sunstreaker. The golden mech looked through it. Optimus sat opposite him and eyed him, considering his options. Extreme times caused for extreme measures. He dropped his voice into a wheedling tone. “Can you drink this for me, please?”

Worked like a charm. Sunstreaker was reaching for the shotglass before he even registered who was giving him the sad, pathetic little optics. Once he knocked it back, the stuff stripped the first layer of shock and paint off in one caustic burn. 

“Gahhhh!”

“For the record, that’s Prowl’s preferred grade,” Optimus noted, twirling his half-full shotglass in resignation. He’d poured it, so he’d drink it, but he wasn’t looking forward to it. Prowl forced the awful stuff on people who needed the dents banged out, in his opinion. The only other person who drank it for pleasure was Ironhide. Optimus knew for a fact that Ratchet used it when the medbay ran out of acetone, however, so at least there was always some on hand. It _did_ work, one way or another.

Sunstreaker gasped, head level with the desk and free hand curling in tiny spasms against the surface. It was the most life he’d shown since stumbling back to base after the battle. Chalk another point up for Prowl’s methods.

“Refill?”

The glass clattered against the desk as a shaking hand tried to push it toward the commander of the Autobots. “Puh…please.”

It was either rank or shock pulling the manners out of Sunstreaker. Optimus Prime withheld judgment and just refilled the glass. It disappeared under the shelter of the desk, and Sunstreaker’s shoulders hitched like he’d been shot as he swallowed it down. The pain was probably similar. 

“Do you want to talk about it?” Optimus asked after it’d had time to reach Sunstreaker’s tank.

A bleary blue optic peered up at him. It blinked slowly. The shotglass was pushed at him again. Optimus nodded in sympathy as he refilled it. It wasn’t easy talking about one of those kind of fights, the kind of one-on-one against Megatron where damage was expected and instead gentleness left armor clamping close in surprised, unnerved defense. He’d seen the look on Megatron’s face. He had seen it turned on a few others in his long experience, but never Sunstreaker. This had to be a brand new terror on the battlefield for the poor frontliner.

He’d wait until Sunstreaker was ready to talk. There wasn’t much Optimus could tell him, almost nothing at all that would help, but he could be here for his soldier at the very least. It wasn’t much, but it was something.

What a fine mess they were in.

 

**[* * * * *]**


	2. Chapter 2

**[* * * * *]**  
**Part Two**  
**[* * * * *]**

 

“Help.”

Sunstreaker’s voice broke into the battlefield frequency like a brick through glass: a flattened blunt object in sharp contrast to the otherwise brittle bark of snapped commands and requests for back-up. Hearing him on the frequency at all was such a rarity that most of the Autobots didn’t pick up on who it was who spoke, at first. They blinked at the identification glyph glaring at them.

The sullenly snarled follow-up didn’t help. “I said help, fraggit.”

The request jerked everyone’s minds back to the words said instead of who said them. “Sitrep!” Prowl ordered.

“Situation is fragged up. One-on-one combat against enemy combatant. Somebody get over here and interfere, ASAP.” The sound cut out for a moment, and Sunstreaker sounded absolutely furious when he tagged back into the channel. Everyone relaxed slightly. See, that was the Sunstreaker they knew. “Help me!”

Okay, so that wasn’t quite the Sunstreaker they knew. They weren’t used to outright calls for help from him.

It wasn’t as though even he couldn’t be thrown up against a superior opponent, however. “On my way!” Trailbreaker called, disengaging from covering the command unit in order to transform and burn rubber toward Sunstreaker’s position. One of the jets overhead veered off to pepper him with laserfire, but Silverbolt spun between them as a handy distraction.

Sunstreaker cut off the channel for half a second again. “Hurry,” he said bluntly when he came back on.

“Hold on.” This had to be bad. Prowl sent him authorization for full use of his forcefield, and Trailbreaker upped the strength. He didn’t usually use a full bubble on the field since it ate so much energon to power it, but Sunstreaker didn’t usually call for back-up, either. 

Trailbreaker understood as soon as he cleared the ridge. “Holy -- “ He threw the bubble before he really even processed the scene.

Sunstreaker stood very, very still against the rock face he was pinned to. From up on the ridge, Trailbreaker could see his right shoulder dislocated and arm hanging limp at his side. His opposite hand was held at an awkward angle, the elbow of his arm obviously twisted to the point of agony to keep him in place. Trailbreaker could barely see that much around Megatron, but it was enough. Sunstreaker had fought, and fought hard, but he’d been up against the leader of the Decepticons. The only thing strange about his injuries was that Megatron seemed to have fought him to a stand-still instead of destroying him completely.

There were plenty of other things strange about the situation. The injuries were nothing beside what else was going on. Trailbreaker could see Sunstreaker’s wide optics, lenses blown open to bright, pale blue in stress so deep it bordered on panic. Fine trembles shook the gold frontliner from fans turned up so high his ventilation system hyperventilated uselessly. He otherwise showed no visible reaction to the mech held back from him by Trailbreaker’s forcefield. He simply stood as still as physically possible behind its thin protection, not even wincing at the hard torque to his elbow.

This couldn’t be what it looked like, but Primus, what if it was? Megatron slammed a fist into the invisible wall, turning his head to glower in stymied passion up at the Autobot on the ridge, and Trailbreaker swallowed sickly. An extra boost of power fed into his generator, pushing Megatron back. It wouldn’t last. He couldn’t hold a forcefield over someone else for very long, especially an incomplete one. He had to leave a hole for Sunstreaker’s forearm, held tight in Megatron’s hand. The Decepticon’s powerplant growled low enough small stones danced about in the dirt, and Megatron punched the forcefield again.

Sunstreaker flinched the slightest bit at the impact. His optics didn’t leave the Decepticon’s face as it slowly turned back toward him. The big fist grinding into the forcefield opened, fingers pressing into empty air. Anyone could read their intent. Sunstreaker’s face stayed blank, but his optics somehow managed to round further.

“Let him go,” Trailbreaker said in the strongest voice he could manage.

Megatron bent forward, forcing himself against the invisible wall, and Trailbreaker’s hands shook as he tried to keep the distance open. The briefest flicker of Sunstreaker’s optics toward him told him Megatron had inched the forcefield closer. Trailbreaker’s hands crimped on thin air, desperate to keep the distance open. Close enough to touch, and Trailbreaker would have to let it go or risk blowing apart parts of Sunstreaker. 

He couldn’t free a hand to shoot while holding the forcefield up. Sunstreaker helm pressed back into the rock face, optics wide in frantic denial. Megatron inexorably pushed forward until Trailbreaker couldn’t see him anymore. At the base of the ridge, Megatron leaned over the forcefield, and Trailbreaker held it despite experience screaming to let it go before it hit Sunstreaker. 

Trailbreaker didn’t know what was going on in Megatron’s head, nor didn’t he want to know exactly. He just wanted Megatron to get the slag away from Sunstreaker, because despite the gold frontliner’s stoic, brave refusal to react, the way he stood was a silent scream of ‘Do Not Want’ plastered across his body language. Megatron had fought the Autobot to a stand-still, battered but still beautiful. Or perhaps even more beautiful from the dents inflicted on him. 

Trailbreaker’s fuel gauge kept ticking down. Megatron kept forcing the bubble inward. Sunstreaker’s heels pushed up tiny mounds of dirt.

Optimus Prime roared up the ridge in altmode, coming to the rescue. “Megatron!” 

“Prime! You dare interfere?!” Megatron turned away, red optics hellish, and Sunstreaker almost faceplanted into the ground, he scrambled away so fast. His hands clawed at the dirt as he flailed to keep his balance. It said something about how unsettled that he was that he didn’t immediately take the offensive. He stumbled two steps, kept his feet, and turned it into a flat-out run _away_. 

Trailbreaker held the bubble secure on him the whole time, silently urging Sunstreaker to hurry. The frontliner climbed up beside him and stuck to his side as they retreated from the fight, the afterimage of red optics lingering greedily on gold plating haunting them both. 

 

**[* * * * *]**


	3. Chapter 3

**[* * * * *]**  
 **Part Three**   
**[* * * * *]**

 

Sunstreaker was renown for his unbarred aggression. To see him retreat one faltering footstep at a time was a novelty to be savored.

Of course, Megatron himself was notorious for his merciless kills. Most Autobots fought one-on-one against him exactly once. Novelty didn’t enter into the equation. Survival ranked as more important when facing off against him, regardless of whether or not this was the first or fifth time.

He didn’t expect the Autobot to relax. There was life-or-death tension between them, and Megatron enjoyed it. Romance wasn’t an option, not for enemies. An Autobot frontliner and the Decepticon leader existed in such polar opposite realms of being that it didn’t even enter Megatron’s mind to approach this as an actual relationship. He didn’t want that from the gleaming warrior edging away from him. He didn’t waste a thought on what said warrior wanted. 

Sunstreaker’s disconcerted reaction to his advances amused him. The contrast to the normal mask of cold hatred the beautiful mech wore intrigued him. He enjoyed pressing closer, watching Sunstreaker step back. The snarl twisting those refined fears fell to near-panic for a brief second before it slammed back into place. The Autobot looked two seconds from a suicidal charge. Megatron smiled with every confidence an attack wasn’t in the making. Sunstreaker was aggressive, not prone to blind rages. He retreated from Megatron because their limited battlefield encounters had already taught him that he couldn’t take the Decepticon in a head-on fight.

Megatron prowled closer, however, because he quite liked teaching that lesson. Only outside intervention had stopped him before this, and there was no one around to stop him this time. He liked seeing the knowledge in wide blue optics. 

Sunstreaker’s increasing nervousness came from the building Megatron’s advance was slowly backing him toward. He knew this dance. It was quickly coming down to the moment where he had to choose to stand down or snap, throwing himself into a useless attack. Both options served Megatron’s purposes. He’d learned that, too. What a choice: stand down and tolerate the advance, or be fought to a stand-still and be forced to take it.

Megatron’s smile became a smug, gloating thing. “Why do you resist?” he asked in an almost conversational tone. It mocked their relative strengths by dismissing Sunstreaker as an opponent. No combat banter here, just amused condescension. “You know what I want.”

“I don’t want it,” Sunstreaker hissed. “Get away from me, fragger!”

Progress, of a sorts. The Autobot frontliner hadn’t responded to Megatron’s comments as of their last encounter. Well, it was to be expected. Soundwave might be a master of communication, and Starscream could turn anyone’s mind through charm and manipulation, but Megatron knew the power of carefully applied force. The mechs who generally perked his interest were the kind to respond better to restrained violence than gentle courting. 

This wasn’t his first battlefield seduction. He knew how to get what he wanted out of those he pursued.

“Your wants are of no consequence.” Megatron dipped his voice into the rich roll of an orator. “What I desire is mine, be it Cybertron or an insignificant piece of polished nothing. Be honored I recognize you as more than a glossed doll to hang off my arm. Where I see you is at my side where such a fierce fighter belongs. Your wants are far less important than the passion we share.” He spoke as though it was a given that he had already won, talking down to the loser like a generous winner offering a morsel of comfort. There was despair in Sunstreaker’s beautiful defiance, the kind of despair from a proud warrior facing a dead end, and Megatron’s words gave that despair a hint of hope, a light to reach for.

The promises he spoke were empty, however. They were what he knew the vain beauty wanted to hear. They were meant to manipulate. Like Starscream, this mech starved for recognition. Megatron knew how to handle such people. Wide blue optics stared at him, shock pushing aside the anger and confusion, and the Decepticon knew he had him. For how long hardly mattered. This wasn’t romance, after all. This was seduction, plain and simple, and Megatron boldly strode forward while the surprise was fresh.

Sunstreaker stumbled back in hasty retreat, and his back slammed into the building, bringing him up short. He shouted, cornered into sudden reaction, but Megatron palmed the thrown punch and dragged him forward by the captured hand. Taking the struggling Autobot’s mouth in a triumphant kiss was more of a fight, but Sunstreaker wouldn’t have been half as attractive if he surrendered.

 

 

**[* * * * *]**


	4. Chapter 4

**[* * * * *]**  
 **Part Four**   
**[* * * * *]**

 

Soundwave was the one to find him afterward. Sunstreaker wished he could have been surprised by that, but he’d hit his quota of shocks for the day. He looked up at the bulky navy Decepticon and thought rather numbly that of course it would be one of the upper echelon. Soundwave was probably an old hand at cleaning up Megatron’s affairs. There used to be a whole branch of Public Relations dedicated to smoothing out the Senate’s various intimate scandals, after all.

Optimus Prime had been sympathetic, not surprised, when he found out about Megatron and…this. It wasn’t the first time an Autobot had been targeted. Sunstreaker was one more mess to be cleaned up, and it was just his luck the Decepticon side of the affair had found him first. 

Despite that, he didn’t expect Soundwave to attack, and the Decepticon didn’t. Soundwave wasn’t here to kill him. It was fairly clear whatever Megatron intended for Sunstreaker had just begun. A savage kiss and intensely bad touches were meant to be a warm up. They were meant to lead to the next level. He was getting a feel for how Megatron prepared his conquests, and he didn’t like it. It felt inevitable, giving him choices that weren’t choices because he could struggle but was always forced to choose what Megatron wanted him to in the end. A sense of futility crept despair across him the longer he thought about it.

It had started with a lack of retaliation, dismissing his attacks while optics rich in calculating interest drank him in. Then it progressed to gentle blows more caresses than hits. Megatron had almost smiled, teasing. Sunstreaker would have labeled it flirting if he hadn’t been desperately dodging the weird non-attacks. The tyrant’s had refrained from damaging him if he stuck to defense instead of offense, and Sunstreaker had learned, painfully, that offense got him nowhere. He’d reluctantly taken to trying to cut and run rather than flinging himself into combat, but it hadn’t helped. Each battle had turned the tables as Megatron pushed him back until there was nowhere left to retreat, cornering him and giving him the choice of surrender or further injury _and_ surrender. 

Trailbreaker had stopped the last attempt to up the ante, barely. Sunstreaker had known what was coming. He’d expected it. He’d tried to avoid it, but not even being assigned as the rear guard today had prevented Megatron finding him.

Today, Megatron had had a clear field.

Fighting wasn’t a choice against an opponent this powerful. Everything in him had screamed to fight back as Megatron backed him against the wall, and sick guilt flooded him now for not doing it. It would have been suicidal to keep struggling when Megatron made it perfectly clear that beating him to compliance was an option. This would happen even if he didn’t surrender. He knew that. The slow build stripped away the hope of a struggle making a difference. 

Common sense had dictated he stand there and endure the attention, the warped affection, and he’d miserably complied. He had dents to show for a brief flash of foolish panic, but not many. Not enough to point at if any of the other Autobots asked. What had he done to stop Megatron? He’d done everything he could, but there was no proof. Why hadn’t he kept fighting? Because he wasn’t an idiot, and dead Autobots couldn’t win a war, but long-term thinking didn’t help him in the short term. He could almost feel the others’ disbelief and mockery for his choices.

He’d been huddled here in the alley where Megatron left him afterward for an hour so far, unable to do more than dwell on what he should have done. He couldn’t make himself do anything else. 

Sunstreaker knew they were all searching for him. Sideswipe had been on the Autobot comm. channel frantically calling for him half the battle. Trailbreaker had a private channel open to him in hope he’d answer, or call for help. There hadn’t been a point in calling. Trailbreaker had stopped Megatron once, but only for a short while, and by the grace of Prime’s intervention had Megatron not gotten around him. This time, Megatron probably would have just killed Trailbreaker and gone back to what he was doing. Both Prowl and Optimus Prime had ordered him to report, or at least ping the emergency frequency to show he was still alive. Both of them sounded concerned, not judgmental, but he knew that would change. He _knew_ it.

Yet Soundwave found him first. He knew where to start looking. Maybe Megatron had called him in. Sunstreaker looked up at him for a moment, deep blue optics haunted, but didn’t otherwise react. Reacting seemed pointless. Soundwave knelt in front of him, and he drew his legs up in automatic defense. The communication specialist reached forward, hand seeking the handsome face, and turning away wasn’t enough to dodge the implacable grip. It seized his chin and turned his face up for inspection. He jerked his head, but Soundwave controlled the motion, forcing him still.

A thumb rubbed over the smear on Sunstreaker’s lower lip. Chrome had transferred onto chrome, leaving a noticeable mark but no color difference. Soundwave made a sound, perhaps a hum of approval, and tipped the frontliner’s face to the side to study a dent in his neck. Black filled the deepest part, duller than Sunstreaker’s own glossy paintjob. Megatron had left a mark. “A shame,” Soundwave said in that monotone drone. “Sunstreaker: beautiful, but easily marked. Rough play detrimental to finish.” 

Sunstreaker blinked up at him. Was _that_ why he’d been singled out? His _looks_? It made a certain amount of sense, in a sick way. While his homicidal rages on the battlefield were remarkable, passion wasn’t enough. There was plenty of passion on a battlefield. He’d thought seeing him in action so often here on Earth had been what had attracted Megatron’s attention, but Sunstreaker’s shine always turned heads. It was a steady background constant in his life. He just hadn’t had the sheer arrogance to think it would earn a second look from the Decepticon tyrant.

It was _Megatron_. Sunstreaker was a vain mech, absolutely confident in his looks, but assuming he was beautiful enough to capture the enemy leader’s attention was a bit much even for him.

Except Megatron was a mech like any other. A great evil, a mighty warrior, but still at spark a regular mech vulnerable to needs and desires. 

“Megatron: desires a pretty trinket,” Soundwave said in ruthless accuracy, following his thoughts. Sunstreaker gave him a dumbfounded look, slightly glazed around the edges in shock, but the Autobot rallied a second later. He slammed a router disrupted up, scrambling whatever wireless connection Soundwave had made. The Decepticon buzzed low in the chest as if amused.

Sunstreaker made a half-sparked effort to break loose of the hand holding his chin. “I’m not a collectible,” he snarled, but it was a weak defiance. Ornamental trophy mechs were a relic of the past, but Megatron could afford to bring back old corruptions of power. He likely wanted to show off a tamed Autobot hanging off his arm, or at least under his thumb. Famed for his fighting prowess, yet a docile, pretty trinket in Megatron’s hand.

He couldn’t see any way out of being beaten in to the shape Megatron wanted him to fit into. Soundwave released him, still buzzing that scoffing laughter, and Sunstreaker jerked his head to the side to stare at nothing as his mind ran in scared circles. There was no way out. No escape. 

Numb resignation kept his thoughts muffled, distant from reality, but a pathetic sort of baffled anger grew behind the numbness when the Decepticon brought out a soft cloth. Impersonal hands began buffing the worst of the scuffs and paint transfers away. Was Soundwave seriously _polishing_ him? 

Sunstreaker knew Megatron’s sick game. Megatron wanted to wear him down. Megatron wanted to reduce Sunstreaker to powerless, helpless surrender to his will when he finally took what he wanted instead of indulging in brief lessons in their comparative strength and what trifling indulgences he could make the Autobot submit to. Those lessons broke Sunstreaker down in brutal lessons that hurt where Ratchet couldn’t fix him.

Sunstreaker hadn’t known that Soundwave would take part in the grooming. Literal grooming, cleaning him up afterward, but he recognized what was being done to him. It was a psychological ploy. Soundwave was messing with his mind by coaxing him into a slow sort of acceptance, making it easier to accept what had happened. Look, the slow polishing said to him. No harm, no foul. No permanent damage, right? Everything was okay. Everything was fine. It was over, and as a reward for cooperation, he was being returned to normal, as if it were only a nightmare.

He didn’t want it to work, but it was. The soft cloth working over his armor was a soothing, constant pressure wiping away the evidence. Vain as he was, Sunstreaker hated, _hated_ how his shoulders gradually eased down. A straining tension in the back of his shellshocked mind subtly relaxed the more of the paint transfers buffed away. Much of his perception of the world was visual-based. He thought in pictures. He identified with people via their appearance first, and often only that. His conception of self was based off his own image.

Soundwave cleaned away the evidence of Megatron’s assault, and Sunstreaker couldn’t help but feel better. It was a terrible reaction.

He was shivering violently by the time the Decepticon stood up, folding the cloth away and looking down at him as stoic as a statue. Golden armor clattered against the alley walls. It had been restored to a decent shine. Not perfect, but beautiful again. The part of Sunstreaker’s wounded mind contemplating changing paint jobs to something ugly and picking a fight with a Dinobot for the dents it’d give him could no longer bear the thought of being so unkempt. He was gorgeous and knew it. He couldn’t stand the thought of looking anything but his best, even if his looks were what had Megatron determined to own him. 

The cleaning had drawn him out of the misery. He wasn’t sunk in numb shock anymore. He glared up at Soundwave, fingers drawing into claws and optics narrowed like an insulted cat. Soundwave experience with Ravage had probably allowed him to time the polishing session right. Had he drawn it out any longer, Sunstreaker would have recovered enough to attack. As it was, Sunstreaker shifted into an aggressive crouch.

His back hit the alley wall a moment later, spark jumping in his chest. Soundwave buzzed and stooped lower to look him full in the face. The hand that had seized Sunstreaker’s chin again held him, and for a few seconds Sunstreaker couldn’t do anything but shake in reaction to the sudden panic that had swept through him. Soundwave smoothed his thumb over Sunstreaker’s lips again, rubbing in what he’d done. What Sunstreaker had allowed, really, just like he’d allowed Megatron to touch him in the first place, and the reminder was as bitter-black as used oil.

“A pretty, glossy trinket,” Soundwave stated, utterly impassive. A fine piece tamed to Megatron’s hand. 

The gold frontliner stiffened, furious. 

Soundwave waited for a response that never came. Point made, he hummed his approval and straightened, turning to leave.

Angry, despairing blue optics watched him go. There was no point in goodbyes. They both knew there would be a next time.

 

**[* * * * *]**

 

_[ **A/N:** I could add more, but like Sunstreaker and Soundwave, I know what will happen next time. There’s a ton of rape scenes out there that can fill in that blank.]_


End file.
